Athos stood outside the medical tent as men hobbled away, while others stood in line for treatment. Those most severe were still inside with wounds that ranged from musket balls embedded in sensitive tissue, sword wounds that bled freely, broken bones, and head injuries. To treat the men the best way they could, all the captains had agreed to combine forces and pool their medical personnel together. Physicians, including barbers and animal doctors, stitched, bandaged, and saw to the wounds.

Aramis, with his advanced years of military service, had organized the medical tents by severity of injury. The most experienced physicians worked on those whose lives were on the line and seconds counted. Whereas those with less medical training saw those with less severe injuries.

The men, Musketeers and members of Raboin's military force, tried to remain strong as skin was tugged, snipped, pulled, and wrapped. Those already treated and able to walk on their own sat around the fires that burned near their tents. They wrapped their fingers around their hammered tin cups and drank their teas, warmed ciders, and broths. They looked tired. With blankets draped over their shoulders, they battled the frigid air, despite the sun being out. At least the cloud cover had provided some warmth, but with the sun came the brutal cold of the fresh air and a slight breeze that was just enough to bite at exposed skin.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos asked and looked at Aramis as he stepped from the tent and tossed a bloodied rag to the ground.

Aramis placed his hands on his hips and nodded. "I've sent him back to his tent. He needs to rest," he said and shook his head. "The cough is worse, but given what he's been through the past couple of days," he paused and looked at the men around him, "he could be much worse."

"Porthos?"

"Minor injuries and he's already left the tent and is in search of something more sustainable to eat than just broth," Aramis replied with raised eyebrows and a knowing smile.

Athos nodded. "I need to see the general."

"What are you going to tell him?"

"The truth," Athos said, and with the cup of his hand, he rubbed his jaw. "I didn't defy his orders."

Aramis quirked an eyebrow and said, "But you didn't exactly follow them either."

Athos shifted his feet and looked at Porthos, who strode toward the tent with a bowl of hot soup and a large piece of bread.

Porthos smiled, sipped at his soup, and then quickly adjusted his footsteps to keep from falling as he stopped near the front of the tent. "Gentry finally agreed to use some of the dried meats." He passed the bowl between them and forced the steam closer to their faces. "It's not hearty, but it's tasty." He dipped a portion of his bread into the bowl and took a massive bite. "Real good." His stomach growled and Aramis shrugged.

"Is there enough for everyone?"

Porthos nodded, and with a movement of his elbow, he motioned toward the refugee camp. "The refugees are scourin' the woods behind the chateau for foods, mushrooms, wild garlic, an' they've managed to 'unt a few rabbits."

"I've got to inform the general," Athos said and turned.

"You should eat something," Aramis said. "You need to keep your strength up."

"I will later," Athos replied over his shoulder.

Aramis shook his head and wiped his nose with the back of his wrist. "More have arrived?" He said and looked toward the refugee camp.

"It'll take more than a few rabbits to feed 'em all," Porthos said and took a sip from his bowl.

Aramis nodded and listened to the groaning of the men inside. "We need those supplies," he said and rubbed his face. "Assuming it's the Spanish who have intercepted them, we won't need to fight another battle. The lack of food and ammunition will be enough to beat us."

"It'll never 'appen," Porthos said. He took a deep breath, belched, and then tapped his temple with his index finger. "Athos is plannin' somethin'. He's got that look in his eye." He glanced toward the chateau where Athos had walked. "Man's more uptight than a woman's corset, but when he gets a plan in his head…" Porthos shook his head. "There's no turnin' 'im back."

Aramis looked at Porthos with a look of question. "A woman's corset, Porthos?"

Porthos shrugged and then smiled. "It sums 'im up, don't you think?"

Aramis frowned and placed his hands on his belt. "Perhaps he needs some," he shrugged, "pampering?"

Porthos cocked an eyebrow and then snorted. "Athos and pamperin'?"

"Sure, it might help him relax a bit."

Porthos clapped Aramis on the shoulder and said, "It's been a pleasure knowin' you, brother."

"I heard some refugees are offering to wash and darn the men's clothing, they're offering to cut hair, a few are even offering to repair weapons, tents, and sharpen swords."

"He is looking a bit," Porthos raised his right shoulder and winced, "churlish?"

Aramis shook his head. "Brutish… Athos isn't deliberately rude or mean."

Porthos huffed. "He's not stupid… he's more uncilivlized."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Have you met Athos…? Even his tone in the presence of nobility is…" he paused, "refined. I'd say he's —"

"Tempestuous," Ninon said as she stepped behind them both, "and sorrowful."

Aramis turned, smiled, and then stepped forward and kissed her cheek. "You look as ravishing as the day I first met you." He stepped back as Porthos kissed her cheek. "Actually," he said, "I thought you once said Athos was handsome, but with mental vacancy?" He raised his eyebrows and watched her smile and nod.

"That was impolite of me," she said and clutched at the shawl around her shoulders. "I saw him earlier — before the battle started. I wanted to see him, but," she shrugged, "I know he's busy." She handed Aramis a small basket. "Please, give this to him — it's apple bread." She looked at her hands. Torn fingernails and calluses marred her palms and fingers. Her once glamorous dress had been replaced with a simple, but warm, peasant dress, but she was just as beautiful without the jewelry or fine adornments.

Aramis took the basket and raised it up to his nose, and smelled the bread. "I know he'll appreciate it."

Ninon turned to walk back to her camp.

"Do you," Aramis said and watched her stop and turn toward him, "know how to cut hair?"

Ninon chuckled, raised her chin and eyebrows, and said, "I've been a schoolteacher for two years, Aramis. Not only do I cut hair, I bake breads, make soups, darn clothings, and I even chop my own wood when the need arises." She smiled as she looked at him. "If you need a haircut, I'd be happy to give you one."

"Athos needs one." He shrugged Porthos' hand off his shoulder.

Ninon watched Porthos shake his head and asked, "Does Athos know he needs one?"

Aramis stammered, looked upward, and then said, "Call it a…" he paused, "duty to the Musketeer regimental presentation." He nodded, more to himself than anyone standing around him, and smiled confidently. "He wouldn't want to misrepresent the Musketeers or any members of the king's special regiment."

Ninon squinted and turned her head slightly to the right. "Is this how you persuade your paramours?"

Aramis frowned.

Porthos chuckled.

"Where is your other friend?" Ninon asked. "D'Artagnan?"

"Aramis is about to go check on the pup," Porthos said and grasped Aramis' shoulder with a firm grip, "before 'e sticks 'is foot too far up 'is — in 'is mouth."

Ninon chuckled. "Tell him I said hello." She turned, tightened her grip around her shawl, and walked away.

Porthos exhaled slowly and said, "If you keep sticking' your nose into other people's business, Aramis," he huffed and gripped the edge of his bowl tighter, "nobody's goin' to dig you out of the hole you bury yourself in."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Porthos. It's simply a haircut." Aramis dusted the front of doublet and then glanced at his hands that were speckled in blood. "Besides," he lifted the basket Ninon had handed him, "Athos needs to eat."

Porthos groaned.